


Seams

by Disembowel-me (Sarunkoku)



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Amputation, Graphic Description of Masturbation with said Amputation, Masturbation, Mild Drugging, graphic description of amputation, yandere behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 19:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16898520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarunkoku/pseuds/Disembowel-me
Summary: Lawrence kept you... And got a little too excited in the process.





	Seams

_Ghrrgh. Grrgh. Ghrrgggghhh_.

The blade sawed through the bone loudly. Lawrence's fingers dug into the flesh so hard you were beginning to bruise, imprinted with his handprint forever. His mouth hung open slightly in concentration, wrenching the saw back and forth, back and forth. His muscles tensed and twitched with the effort, sweat from the humid air dampening his armpits and bangs.

One severed leg rested a few inches away from your unconscious body, a ringed bruise from the tourniquet circling about an inch above the freshly stitched stump. Blood pooled under you, seeping through clothing and staining skin and his floorboards. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if that would count as water damage. But he was too excited, too worked up to really care at this moment.

Adrenaline was making him shake. Blood collecting near the surface of his skin, making his face and neck hot. He'd already shed his jacket, but he was still warm. _Really warm._  


The saw grated through bone again, and suddenly there was much less give, tearing through soft flesh alone, and within two more powerful strokes, the next leg was fully severed.

"Ahh... hah..." Lawrence sat up straight, back aching from being hunched over. He smiled, appraising his work. “You’re beautiful...” Blood poured from the raw flesh, exposed fractured bone so tantalizing, but... he couldn't touch you. That would compromise your healing. He needed you to heal. He couldn't stand the thought of losing you, and if it were at his own hand... it was unbearable.

Although...

He looked to the detached, oozing leg. Soft red flesh hugging bone, a hard casing surrounding off-white spongy marrow. He wanted to run his fingers over the bumps, rough ridges, push into the marrow, feel the thick give of meat and pallid skin. The thought made his cheeks grow hotter, heart beat a little faster, blood thrumming through his veins...

He looked back to you. Bloody. Exposed. Raw. Butchered... After. He needed to close you up first. Start the healing as soon as possible.

He could... feel it after.

He swallowed thickly, setting down the saw and picked up the needle. The first leg's stitches were a little messy... he was used to sewing for his art, but living skin was trickier. It resisted the sharp tip of the fishhook needle just a little bit more, was far more supple, could withstand more tugging- no, _needed_ more tugging from each stitch. Sew. Cinch.

Stitch. Sew. Cinch.

Stitch. Sew. Cinch.

Quickly he learned how to get the stitches closer together, pulling the edges of the sliced skin together more neatly, tying the ends better. His nimble hands worked steadily but quickly.

Sloppily he threw a towel on the blood on the floor. His hands were shaking. Eyes kept darting to the disembodied leg. Disembodied by him. Back to you. Two stumpy thighs, smeared with blood. Skin blotchy with greenish yellow, bluish-red bruises, an angry irritated red where he’d torn you apart. Back to what used to be your feet and shins and knees. Trickling fluids, irritated flesh that would never be tended to the way their other halves were so lovingly cared for by him. Laying there, by themselves, so lonely... 

He scooted over a tiny bit and ran his hand over one. Still warm, still bleeding. The blood was beginning to coagulate, with nothing to keep it pumping. A lot of it was already all over the floor, all over you, all over him. He smeared the gel-like blood at the edges with his fingers, then brought them to his mouth, licking his fingertips gingerly. Rusty, thick, heady... He moaned. He grabbed the leg with both hands, squeezing out a quick stream of red droplets. The flesh squelched in his grip, so tight his knuckles were turning white.

“Nng...” He groaned out loud. He pushed it between his legs, rocking his damp crotch against it. One hand pulled down his sweatpants, cock swiftly stiffening. Rocking his hips, he ran his bloodied hand up and down his shaft a few times, breath becoming laborious. “So... pretty. You’re so... pretty inside.” He pressed his cock into the raw meaty gash, thrusting slow. “I’m so happy... I get to see the inside of you...” Thin streams of blood ran along his length, coating him in viscous red. The head of his dick dug into the muscle and fat tissues, the ridge rubbing against the edge of your bone, and he hissed. It was so wrong, that your leg was here and you were over there, so, so wrong. 

He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut. He moaned, fucked himself against your amputated limb faster. It used to carry you, take you places, your tendons and muscles and bones all working together smoothly, seamlessly connected - and now, thanks to him, you had many seams.

“F-fuck...” He breathed. He didn’t often swear, but it felt so good. You felt so good. His grip firmed, clutching himself against you even tighter. He could feel the thick, soft layers of flesh under his fingers, knowing they surrounded your bones like a cacoon. “Fff-f- _fuck_!” He cried softly. “You- you feel- you’re so- so good...” He moaned again, loudly this time. “Hn- Aha- _Ah-- Ahngh-_!”

Pelvis tensing. Thrusting faster. Hips stuttering. Biting his lip even harder-

He came with a harsh whine from the back of his throat. Hot, salty white spilling onto the cooling, sallowed skin. 

Panting hard above the fleshy stump, he sat there for a few seconds, savoring the sweetness of the moment. Eventually, he set it gently down on the floor and groped for a box of tissues on top of the table to wipe it and himself off. A small mountain of reddish sticky tissues amassed right there on the floor next to you; he wiped his sweat-soaked forehead with the back of his forearm and sighed heavily, a large smile on his face, then tucked himself back into his boxers.

He picked up the tourniquet and saw. Back... back to work.

-

He’d almost finished sawing through your last arm when you groaned, long and quiet. He immediately withdrew the saw, rocking back onto his feet in a squat. A tremor ran through you. 

Then your eyes opened, bleary, sunken, red. Wide with fear, glassy with pain.

“Oh...” He sighed wistfully, smiling down on you. “Oh, no... Don’t move.” He leaned down to brush your hair back from your sweaty forehead with blood-splattered fingers. “I’m not done yet.”

Your body convulsed, eyes growing more and more frantic by the second. 

He reached for a plastic bottle of tea from the table. “Hey, shh, calm down, okay?” Strong fingers forced open your slack jaw and poured a small mouthful into your mouth. You gagged and sputtered, but he stroked your throat with the back of two fingers, coaxing you to swallow. 

You tried to say something, lips struggling to pronounce wheezy words, but either the pain was too much or the drug too strong, because you quickly sunk back into unconsciousness.

He rubbed his face with one hand, smudging half-dried red across his cheek. He was blushing so hotly he was nearly burning up. Cheeks sore from smiling. When had he last been so _happy_?

Quickly he worked to separate your last remaining limb from you and sewing it closed. He didn’t want it to wear off before he was done again. 

He stood up to retrieve a washcloth and disinfectant to clean your incisions, wiping carefully along the brand new stitches. Then he wetted it and wiped clean your body of blood and sweat, cutting off your clothing, delicately picking you up in his arms and laying you down in his bed. 

He turned around. Greeted by four severed limbs scattered around the vaguely body-shaped imprint in the blood. Leaking. Useless. Slowly dying.

You’d never need them again. Would never use them to leave. Leave him. 

His face was still hot, hand traveling down to slip into his sweatpants to touch himself again; other hand covering his mouth. You couldn’t leave now. Not now, now that he'd taken away everything that could take you away from him; now that he'd cut away all your problems and closed shut all your new seams. No more problems. No more being left alone.

You’d never leave him. 

_Never_.


End file.
